Master
by Galad Estel
Summary: Bookverse AU: Sauron reclaims the Ring and works to make himself the Lord of all Middle-earth. Those left of the Fellowship and others who opposed Sauron are now either enslaved or work towards what seems a futile resistance. Warning: Violence and Character Deaths
1. Chapter 1

Earth hovered. Brittle and broken, rocks grinded beneath his feet. Frodo gulped hot air, his head dangling. The Ring pulled his neck down and burnt his skin. He ran forward, falling, crawling, palms and leathery soles cut and bleeding. Skin and hair soaked with sweat, he climbed into the chamber. His heaving breath echoed back to him.

Inside, everything was black. Frodo limped along, his hands grasping the rough edges of the tunnel wall to keep him from keeling over. As he went further, the air thickened. Light sprung up from a giant fissure, red in the blackness. He was now in a cave like room, he could see it by the flare. He was alone. The mountain lay unguarded.

It seemed too simple. Perhaps Gandalf was wrong. Perhaps casting the Ring into the Cracks would do nothing. Frodo walked to the edge of the fissure and looked down at the molten rock churning below. The Ring quivered against his chest. All he had to do was throw It in there and everything would be over.

Frodo reached up to pull the Ring from his neck. The chains clung to his skin. He choked but managed to get It off. He held the Ring up in front of him. The golden band glistened in the fiery light. Frodo moved to throw It, but his arm stopped.

A voice was calling to him. It was beautiful, deep, and slow like wind through a cave or the roll of the sea.

Halt! Why would you destroy me? it said.

_I was sent here to. _Frodo replied trembling. He could not tell where the voice was coming from, though it seemed to live in his very mind.

_By whom? _it said.

_I cannot say. I will not say. I came of my own free will._

_Why do you wish to destroy me? _

_You are evil._

_What have I done to harm you? _it said. It spoke softly, sadly. It wanted to know.

_You're riders have hunted me down. One stabbed me. Your Orcs have waylaid and tortured me._

_You took what was mine._

_It was given me. _

_Then all shall be forgiven, and your wounds redressed. Merely give over the Ring. I have sent my servants to collect It._

Frodo turned towards the tunnel in fear but saw no one.

_I cannot listen, _he thought_. I must destroy the Ring. He told me to._

_Who told you to? _it said.

_I cannot tell you._ Frodo strained to keep his limbs from shaking. He stole another glance back, still no one.

_How do you know he was not lying? _the voice said.

Frodo clenched his fist around the Ring trying to make the voice stop, but it was still there in his head.

_Why is he not with you?_

_He is dead_. An image of Gandalf's face surfaced in Frodo's mind. It was a face contorted by terror and anger, falling, falling, so far away. It seemed forever since then. Frodo wondered if Gandalf had even ever existed. Everything seemed so hazy.

_Even you doubt your mind._ the voice said. _It would be wise to give the Ring over. You have had it too long._

_I must destroy it. Only then will I be free._ Frodo wondered though if that were true. The Ring had a firm grip on his mind. To destroy it would mean madness, emptiness. Without the Ring, Gollum was nothing. Frodo would suffer the same fate. Only he would not even have the hope of recovering his precious. He paced the rock trying to reach a decision.

_But you cannot, the voice said, you cannot destroy it. Give it me, and I shall give you life_.

"What use is life to me?" Frodo shouted. "What use is life knowing I've failed?"

_Failed? You follow the plans of a dead man. Your friends are dead, and their armies are broken. Give me the Ring, and you will be honoured. You shall serve at my side, a champion, and all the world shall bow down before you. You will be given riches and power beyond your greatest dreams._

"I have no use for money or power," Frodo said, speaking down to the dangling Ring. "And if my friends are dead as you say, I shall destroy you in vengeance."

Frodo shook the Ring by its chain, but his pacing had brought him away from the Cracks of Doom. He turned back towards the fissure but the Ring was heavy, each step seemed a league in length.

_Nay, do not!_ The voice pleaded desperately. _Some still live, and to those I shall be merciful, if you turn over my treasure, my bauble, my plaything. To you, I shall give strength and knowledge. I will lengthen the years of your life._

Ignoring the voice, Frodo kept his concentration on his feet. Slowly, they were inching forward. He tried stretching his legs. They ached, but he ignored the pain.

_I shall share the Ring with you,_ the voice said. _We together will rule Middle-earth_.

Frodo's throat was too dry for him to speak again. His mind was too tired to try and close itself to the voice.

_Share the power,_ Frodo thought. _No, you have nothing to offer me._

He stroked the Ring with his fingertips. The metal was warm.

_I have the Ring. It is mine._

Frodo looked over the edge at the Crack. He had made it there. He slid the Ring off its chain.

_It is mine._

He rolled the Ring on his palm. It was simple gold but beautiful. His eyes looked down at the red tongues that licked the walls of the mountain. They would devour the Ring. It would be no more and with it would end a great power.

Gandalf had said that the Ring could only be used for evil, but Gandalf had chosen against counsel to go through the mines of Moria, and he was dead. Gandalf was not infallible. Why shouldn't the Ring be used to amend the harm It had done?

In his mind, Frodo could see a perfect world. There would be no wars, no famines, no floods, only rolling hills, bountiful fields, and sweet water. Finally, the Shire would take center stage. From there, Frodo would rule the world in wisdom, hosting great feasts and inviting the rulers from the north, south, east, and west, to meet and eat with him. All lands would give up their weapons and there would be everlasting peace.

"Master!" A voice startled him out of his thoughts. Frodo turned to see Sam. He was trembling. Sting hung from his hand, bloodied.

"What did you do?" Frodo said.

"I couldn't help it, master," Sam spluttered. "He attacked me."

"Oh," Frodo said. "So, Gollum is dead. A pity, I could have saved him."

"What are you talking about? And why do you still have the Ring?"

"I have decided not to destroy it."

"What? But, Mr. Frodo, we came all this way."

"I know. It was a waste." Frodo laid his hand gently on Sam's shoulder. "I'm sorry for troubling you. We can go home now."

"No, we can't!" Sam pulled away. "You have to destroy the Ring. It's the only way, Mr. Frodo."

"I can't, Sam," Frodo said. "And there's no need. We can use the Ring to mend all the wrong in the world, to…Sam, why are you crying?"

"It's claimed you, sir," Sam said. "Don't you remember Boromir, what it did to him? And Gollum? The Ring is poison."

"You killed Gollum," Frodo said coldly. "And Orcs slew Boromir. The Ring has no claim on me. I am its master."

Sam stared hard at Frodo. Slowly, he lifted up Sting.

"Destroy It," he growled. "Destroy the Ring."

Startled, Frodo took a step back. Sam was glaring at him with wet eyes. He moved forward, sword still pointed out. Frodo looked back over his shoulder at the fissure then took a step to the side. He was weaponless. He tried to remember why.

_Sam is a killer_, a voice in his head said._ He killed Gollum. He wants the Ring._

"Get back, thief, murderer," Frodo said. He clasped the Ring in his fist. "Be gone!"

"You have to destroy the Ring," Sam said hoarsely. His sword hand shook. "Please, Mr. Frodo, let it go."

Frodo shook his head. "The Ring is mine."

He slipped the Ring on his finger. Sam seemed dim now, a shadow among shadows. Frodo walked back towards the tunnel. Some force was guiding him there. Through the tunnel and out the door of Sammath Naur, he went until he was standing again in the open air.

The plains of Mordor were deserted. Frodo looked up. Eight points dotted the dusty red sky. As they drew closer, Frodo could make out that were eight riders upon eight winged beasts. The riders' faces glowed white, their eyes burning like fiery lances. The Nazgûl let out a long piercing scream, as their beasts spiraled down towards him.

On the ground, Frodo shook in fear. He did not know how to use the Ring. He tried to take It off his finger, but It would not come off. He ran back towards the tunnel, but his legs buckled, and he fell. He crawled forward, only to loose his grip and tumble further down the mountainside. Unable to move, he lay face flat on rock and started to cry. The Nazgûl crouched over him. Their high, screeches tore through his shoulder, stabbing him again and again. The world around him grew increasingly cold and dark, until finally, Frodo felt nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

As the armies of Mordor came down upon them, Legolas felt Arod shake, but it was not just from the horse's fear. The very ground was a tremble, as Orcs and Men and Trolls charged forward on the army of less than seven thousand that had dared challenge the Dark Lord.

Around him, Legolas could see fear in the faces of the Rohirrim and the men of Gondor. Only Aragorn was holding them together, his calming voice rising above the screams of the Orcs. His sword, Anduril, gleamed in the dim light.

Legolas's hand dipped back, took another arrow, shot. The battle had just begun, but his arrows were already running low. Every arrow had made a hit; every arrow had brought another death to the enemy, but there was always more Orcs to fill the void. Their axes and scimitars sliced into men and horses alike. Rearing steeds threw down their masters, who were trampled by rushing feet.

Another arrow sang from Legolas's bow, hitting a Mountain Troll between its squinting eyes. The creature howled but did not fall. Legolas slit an Orc's throat with his white knife then turned back to the troll. It was still standing. Legolas let loose another arrow. This one pierced an artery in the Troll's upper neck. The Troll fell, spraying hot blood on its Easterling companions.

Aragorn was further away now, riding towards the Gate. Anduril slipped in and out of falling bodies, black and red with blood. Hasufel's hooves crushed the bodies beneath him. Legolas could hear the bones snapping. At Aragorn's side was Gandalf on Shadowfax. His staff glowed like a beacon and set the Orcs trembling at the light. Elrond's sons also rode at the front, their silver cloaks flapping in a warm wind.

A wild shriek had Legolas flat against Arod's back, with his hands clasped over his ears. The Nazgûl had flown from their rousts on the Towers of Teeth. Legolas reached back for an arrow. There were three left in the quiver. Quickly, he drew one out, set it to his bowstring, but he did not let it go. The Nazgûl had passed them by, flying east to Mount Doom.

Frodo was Legolas's first thought, but the Mouth of Sauron had said Frodo had already been captured and brought to the tower. The Mouth could have lied. Renewed hope swept through Legolas. He rode forward in haste. If he were to die today, it would be at Aragorn's side, giving the enemy all the fight he had left. The Orcs that divided them did not matter, a few skilled swipes of his knife, and they were carrion.

Aragorn had reached the Black Gate. Orcs leapt to either side in fear, making a path for him.

"Sauron!" Aragorn called aloud. "Come and fight, you coward! Craven!"

The earth shivered and groaned, but no one came out. A banner barer held up the standard of Arwen, the white tree and the stars. Legolas remembered another warrior who had faced down another dark lord long years ago. In the woods of his childhood, Legolas had heard of the Noldor king, Fingolfin, who had rode unaided to the Gates of Angband and had challenged Melkor. Fingolfin had died. He had smote the monster's foot, but he had died.

"Aragorn," Legolas said, at Aragorn's side. "You are not alone."

Aragorn smiled grimly back at him then they were torn apart again. The Orcs might have quailed at the dreadful gaze of Aragorn and the power of Gandalf, but the men of the South were not as easily frightened. Haradrim in scarlet blazed through the men of the Gondor, cutting them to pieces. Severed hands, arms, and feet pummelled the ground. Legolas did not look at them, his eyes stayed on the enemy, dealing them blow upon blow. He shot the Haradrim captain down with an arrow to the eye, slashed through his men. He tried not to think or feel, as he watched the heads drop. He was in a moment of pure death, once it was over, it would not be real.

Another icy scream hit the air. Legolas lifted his head towards the sky. The Nazgûl were flying back, though there were seven now, not eight. Legolas decided to spare his last two arrows for their beasts, carving Orc heads with quick turns of his knife. He could see the men about him where wearying. Eomer had lost his horse. He was engaging in one-on-one combat with a Mountain Troll and bleeding heavily. His comrades were struggling to come to his aid, but there was a wall of Orcs and Easterlings between them. Legolas could not see Pippin anywhere. He guessed the poor hobbit had already fallen. Gimli was still alive though, his axe unyielding.

The Nazgûl screeched again. Legolas could feel the vibration in his bones. He seized an arrow and shot. The arrow hit one of the flying beasts, but it did not fall. The beasts rushed down, their claws biting into men, lifting them up high, and throwing them to their deaths. All the while the beasts' masters let out shrieks that sent men shaking, falling over each other in fear and despair.

Gandalf had managed to get to Eomer and save him from the Mountain Troll. Now he was directing his energies on the Nazgûl, attempting to drive them away as he had on the Pelennor Fields. Only this time it was different. The Nazgûl paid little attention to the old wizard and his staff, avoiding him, but still terrorizing the enemy army. Legolas could sense there was something wrong. There was a shift in power.

Aragorn was knocked from his horse. One moment, he was sitting proudly astride Hasufel. The next, he was sprawled on the ground with one of the flying beasts over him tearing at his chest. Legolas screamed. He kicked the sides of Arod, trying to get off the horse or urge him forward. He did not know which. All that mattered was getting to Aragorn.

Arod would not go near the flying beast. Though Legolas pressed and pleaded, Arod fought him, moving in the opposite direction, rearing up. If Legolas were not glued to Arod's flanks by the horse's sweat, he might have fallen to his death.

"Aragorn!" "Aragorn!" "Elessar!" "Estel!" Everyone everywhere was screaming.

With effort, Legolas got down from his horse and ran ducking and swerving around the horsemen and foot soldiers. Three other Nazgûl had landed their beasts near Aragorn, surrounding Aragorn, so that none of his companions could reach him. Aragorn grabbed Anduril and stabbed the attacking beast through its throat. It choked and died, but another beast took its place, knocking the sword aside and devouring the fallen king bit by bit. Aragorn cried again and again in pain.

Shadowfax darted between the necks of the fell beasts. Gandalf leapt off his back shouting curses and incantations. Up came Glamdring, shining pale in the gloom. It hacked at the beasts, dismembering those left on the ground. Gandalf dropped to Aragorn's side. He laid his hand over Aragorn's heart. He shook his head then bent and kissed the ranger's brow. The Nazgûl watched unmoving, their tall lances held skyward.

Gandalf sprang back onto Shadowfax, his dark eyes blazing. All around him, Aragorn's men were falling into panic. Some tried to flee the field but were pushed back into the battle by the surrounding walls of Orcs. Others raised their arms in surrender only to be pierced with Orc arrows.

"The war is not over yet!" Gandalf shouted. "We will fight! We will fight to the last man! For Aragorn!"

"For Aragorn!" rang the tired voices of a thousand men.

"For Frodo!" Gandalf called, Glamdring held high.

"For Frodo!"

"For Middle-earth!" Gandalf cried one last time.

"For Aragorn!" came the reply.

Legolas shook like a leaf in the wind. Autumn had come in spring. Aragorn, their last hope, was dead. He could hardly believe it. His knife shook in his hand unusable. Others used this stroke to rally their strength and take one final plunge. Man after man fell shouting Aragorn's name. It was useless. In the end, it was all useless.

Legolas wrapped his Elven cloak about him, becoming invisible to all but the sharpest eyes. He crept through the ranks, wanting to touch Aragorn one last time. Finally, wounded, he made it to Aragorn's side. He cast himself down beside his friend's body and kissed the mutilated lips, the unseeing eyes.

"You're free now," he whispered. "Soon we will all be free."

He determined to stay with Aragorn. No one would defile the noble king. If anyone came near, Legolas would fight, but he would not join his failing companions in combat. He wanted to die. Only torment and darkness lay in living, but he would not seek out death. Death would find him there.

Legolas washed the blood and dirt from Aragorn's face with his kisses and his tears. He lifted the trampled banner from the dust and laid it across Aragorn's chest. The king of the White Tree would never come into his own.

A thought occurred to Legolas, that he might die, and Aragorn's body could still fall into the hands of the filthy Orcs. He wanted the last person to touch Aragorn to touch him in love. So, Legolas built a fire from bramble wood and touched a branch to Aragorn's banner. The process of burning Aragorn took a while. Legolas had to remove much of his armour, because the flames were not catching. Finally, though, his dead leader lay smouldering. The skin had turned to ash on the bone. Legolas had watched the whole while. No one else had noticed.

Most of Legolas's allies lay dead or were restlessly sleeping, victim to the Black Breath. Gandalf was still contending with the Nazgûl but he looked weak and tired. Struggling to his feet, Legolas picked up the Anduril. The sword though was heavier than he had expected. He could not yield it. He let it fall to the ground, unsheathed his own knife and darted back into the fray. The Orcs had subsided, and most of the enemy men were no longer fighting but were taking prisoners through the Black Gate. Legolas saved Gimli from being dragged off by Easterlings, but he could not raise the Dwarf from his cold slumber.

The victorious screams of the Nazgûl swallowed place and time. Legolas no longer saw a point in lifting his knife. The battle was already lost. Then he remembered that there was one more arrow left in his quiver. He took it and his bow out, scanned the area around him. This was his last hit, his last gesture to the world. He would make it count.

He spied the Nazgûl who were all now crowding round Gandalf, their weapons pointed out towards him. Legolas chose their leader and shot. The arrow quivered a moment on the bow spring then shot forward and landed near Nazgûl's foot. Furious at himself, Legolas picked an Orc arrow off the ground. He shot at the Nazgûl. This time, the arrow flew through the Nazgûl's head, leaving no imprint.

In despair, Legolas sank back down near Gimli. He ached. Now that he was still, he noticed many cuts along his arms and legs. Most of them had stopped bleeding but they still looked bad. Legolas was exhausted. His mouth was parched. He did not know where his knife had dropped, but he must have lost it when he got out his bow. Anyway, everything seemed futile. Aragorn was dead. They had been hopelessly outnumbered. An end must come eventually. Legolas wrapped his arms around the unconscious Dwarf and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, it was to stare at dungeon walls.


	3. Chapter 3

Frodo woke on a feather bed. He was clean and naked, wrapped in a black sheet. There were tables of candles surrounding his bed. Large, round mirrors on the walls sent the light dancing from place to place.

Frodo felt numb, not pain. He could hardly feel his fingers as he inched them up towards his throat, no chain, no Ring. His hands searched under the sheets, over the sheets, under the pillow, nothing. Of course, they had taken It.

He leaned his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes. So, it was over. The quest had failed. He had failed. Then another thought struck him.

"Where's Sam?" Frodo said. He bolted up. There was no other bed, no other sound in the room. They were keeping Sam somewhere else. They could be torturing him. Frodo's mind flew back to his own captivity in the Tower of Cirith Ungol, the questions, the claws, and the whips.

He pulled the sheet round him and slipped off the end of the bed, avoiding the candles. His feet barely felt the floor as they touched it. Numb and nauseous, he staggered towards the door. Half way across, he caught sight of his reflection in one of the mirrors. It was a skin-clad skeleton with feverishly bright eyes, a wreck of whoever it used to be.

Frodo reached the door, turned the handle. It opened, and he stumbled forward in surprise.

"Good evening," a voice said from the shadows.

Frodo shielded his face with his hands, expecting a blow. Nothing came. Slowly, he lifted his head again. The stranger had walked out into the light. He was robed in black, his face shadowed by an overhanging hood, but he was a man not a wraith. Frodo could see a chin peeking out, pale and pointed.

"Where am I?" Frodo said.

"Barad-dur," the stranger replied.

"I see," said Frodo, "You were waiting for me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I am to bring you to my master." The stranger held out his hand.

"And who would that be?" Frodo said, not taking it.

"Sauron the Great, Lord of Middle-earth."

"Of all Middle-earth?"

"Soon," the man said. He took Frodo by the arm.

"Are we going to see him now?"

"No," he said. "First I must prepare you."

Long legged, the stranger walked in strides. Frodo could not help but be reminded of Aragorn. He wanted to ask about Aragorn and the others, especially Sam, but he knew that concern could endanger his friends.

He was having a hard time walking. His legs were wobbling, and his head was spinning. He kept tripping on the sheet.

"Why do I feel like this?" Frodo said.

"Medicine for the pain." The stranger led him through a doorway into a steam filled room, where silver basins held hot water.

"Why am I here?" Frodo said.

"To bathe, but first we'll see if you can eat." The stranger clapped his hands and two boys came walking in carrying a bowl and a pitcher and cup. They were both dark skinned and dressed in black livery. They looked at Frodo in fear, nearly dropping the dishes as they set them down on a nearby table.

"They've been told you are a monster," the stranger explained to Frodo. "That you scalp children and eat babies."

"What?"

"People have a need to make their enemies more interesting," said the stranger. He poured water from the pitcher into the cup and handed it to Frodo. "Drink."

Frodo took the cup and gulped down the water, trying not to stare at the boys who were still standing by and shuddering.

"I don't scalp," Frodo said. "In fact, I haven't killed anyone."

"They would find that most disappointing," the stranger said. "It is a good thing then that they do not understand your Common tongue."

Frodo frowned.

"You should probably sit down," the stranger said, pulling up a wooden chair. "I want to see if you can hold down any of the broth."

"Can they go?" Frodo asked nodding towards the boys.

"Do they make you uncomfortable?"

"I couldn't eat. They look so miserable."

"You have a soft heart," the stranger. He looked at the boys and clapped. Relief flooded their eyes. They bowed and left the room.

_Yes_, Frodo thought, _I have a soft heart, for the little good it's done me. _

Frodo began weighing the situation. It was doubtful that torture would begin while he was still numb. Perhaps, they would first try to persuade him to indulge his company's secrets through bribes and threat of torture. Actual torture could wait for later. In which case, he should at least try to gain a good sense of his surrounding and the people in them. He could still aid the cause of good in a small, unremembered way.

He turned to the stranger. "Do you have a name?"

"That isn't important," the stranger said.

"I'd like something to call you," Frodo said.

"Why? Whatever for?"

"I don't know," Frodo said. His voice was always high but he raised it higher now, making it childlike. The man might have a son or daughter. "It would just be nice, that's all."

"I don't even know your name," the stranger said.

"I'm Frodo," Frodo said. "Son of Drogo."

His father was dead so naming him would not matter, and his given name was one of the first things they would find out when they started to break him. It was just as well it came out now, while he still had a bit of pride left.

"Well, Frodo son of Drogo, I'm called Rain."

"But that's not your name?"

"No. Now try eating some of the broth. It will make you stronger."

"Why does it matter to you if I get strong or not?"

"It does not matter to me personally," Rain said. "But those were my orders."

"From the Dark Lord?"

"Yes."

Frodo looked down at the bowl. "What sort of broth is this?"

"Beef."

Frodo sipped at it. It did taste like beef, like beef broth with too much water. Sam would say that it was weak and nasty, but it did make Frodo feel stronger after he had finished the bowl.

"May I have some more?" Frodo asked.

"No," Rain said. "We have to make sure that stays down first. In the meanwhile, I'll give you a bath."

Frodo would have protested but he was not sure if he could hold himself up in the water. His body was still shaking.

"All right," he said.

Rain lifted him up and placed him in one of the basins. With gentle hands he washed the hobbit's body. Though in truth, there was not much to wash. Frodo was clean, which probably meant these baths had occurred before, though he could not remember them. He wondered if he had been awake or asleep then.

"How long have I been here?" Frodo said.

"About a fortnight," Rain said.

"Have I slept all this time?"

"For the most part," Rain said. "Though the times you've woken probably just passed as dreams to you. The medicine made you quite out of it."

Rain lifted Frodo out of the water. He wrapped him in towels on a low-lying couch and rubbed him dry. Afterwards, he picked Frodo up again and set him on his feet. He dressed Frodo in a soft, black robe.

"It's made from spider silk," Rain said quietly, running his fingers along the cloth that covered Frodo's back. Frodo shivered instinctively, remembering Shelob and the poisoned wound she had given him.

"Where's Sam?" Frodo said. He had not wanted to ask, but the words had come to his mouth without warning. 'Where's my Sam?"

"I assume you are speaking of your traveling companion?"

"Where's my Sam?" Frodo demanded again. The shadows in the room seemed to be swirling. His head felt so heavy, he thought it would fall off. "What have you done to him?"

"You're becoming delirious again," Rain said. "You should lie down."

"No! No!" Frodo said. The man was a monster, pretending to be kind. "I must find him. After everything he's done for me."

Rain took hold of him, tried to make him lie down on the couch. Frodo fought him. They struggled for a while, but finally, Rain's superior strength won out. Frodo lay panting on the couch.

"You can't win," Rain told him. "You've already lost. Stop struggling. Even if you were to get past me, they're guards everywhere. Behave yourself. If you're good, we'll be good to you."

"I don't matter," Frodo said.

"But your Sam does," Rain said with a smile.

"You can't do anything to Sam," Frodo said. "He's dead. He was my brother."

"Oh?" Rain said.

Frodo looked him in the eye. "My mother and father are dead too. I haven't got anyone."

Rain caught the gaze and bored into his mind.

"Not all you say is true," he said, "but the Dark Lord will know more. Come."


	4. Chapter 4

The streets of Gondor were quiet. No one sang or spoke out loud. Words came only in whispers. Eowyn walked through the garden outside the Houses of Healing, but the fresh air did not refresh her, and the healers were unable to heal her shattered heart.

They had left in the early morning, some days past. She could not keep track of time. She did not dare to. Lingering on the eastside, she looked out towards Mordor. Aragorn had gone, and Eomer with him. They had departed into the dark, and no message had reached Gondor whether there was death or victory. She held her shawl tight about her shoulders. Though the day was warm, she was shivering.

"You've caught fever," Ioreth told her when she finally came back inside. "Best to rest now."

"I cannot rest," Eowyn said. "I am restless."

The old healer woman smiled sadly and led her to her bed. "Lie down. I'll bring you some tea."

Eowyn lay down and pulled the wool blankets over her. Almost as soon as she had covered herself though, she felt hot and kicked the blankets to the end of the bed. She groaned and rolled over, cold again. Her limbs ached, all but her broken arm, which felt nothing.

Ioreth came back and bent over her. She pressed a mug into her hand. The tea was strong, a nasty herbal remedy. Eowyn drank it though, because Ioreth's eyes watched her closely.

"Any news?" Eowyn asked.

"None," replied Ioreth. "Only hearsay."

"Does that bode well?"

"No, my lady. Though the weather is warm the sky is dark, and the lights in towers to the East are still burning."

"What a horrible time to live."

"Yes."

Eowyn stared at the bed to her left. Merry was asleep. His breathing was soft, regular. He looked small lying there, almost a child, though she knew he was full grown. She wondered if his cousin were still living, the one that had been sent out to Mordor. She didn't know why he had been sent. She had questioned Merry about it, but mentioning Frodo always pained Merry.

"He looks peaceful," Eowyn said, nodding towards Merry.

"That he does. Poor, little fellow."

"He's a knight of Rohan," Eowyn corrected. "He saved my life."

"And you saved thousands."

"No," Eowyn said. "They ride to death again. I gave them days, not life."

Ioreth dabbed a cloth in a bowl of water and set it on Eowyn's head.

"I don't want it," Eowyn said. She shoved the wet cloth back into Ioreth's weathered hand.

"It will cool the fever." Ioreth pressed the cloth back against the hot skin.

"I don't care. I can't stay here. Oh, why wouldn't they take me with them?" Eowyn sat up.

"Because you are a wounded. Merry is here as well, resting." Ioreth pushed on Eowyn's good shoulder, trying to lie her down.

Eowyn pulled away and stood up. She walked to one of the windows, but it looked westward. She turned and spotted Faramir's empty bed. It had been stripped of its blankets, sheets and pillows and lay a naked, wooden frame.

"Where's Faramir?" she asked.

"Lord Faramir has been released. He had to attend to the affairs of the city. Poor lad, his father…well, one hopes he won't succumb to the same despair."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, I should shut my mouth before speaking. You shouldn't be troubled with it. We haven't even told him."

"About what? I want to know." Eowyn walked back over and sat down on her bed, bribing Ioreth with obedience.

"His father – may he rest soundly – died of his own hand," Ioreth began. "Burnt himself in a tower."

"How horrible," Eowyn said. She had thought Lord Denethor had died in honour in battle, like her own king and mother's brother, Theoden.

Ioreth nodded.

"He's been troubled for a long time," she said. "Ever since his sweet Lady Finduilas died, he's been a hard man. The way he drove poor Boromir, always prodding, expecting perfection. He loved him though. Lord Boromir had his mother's smile, but he was a reckless man. Half his father's fault, Boromir was always trying to impress him. Lord Denethor was even crueler to our young Faramir. He rarely showed him love, until the day he died. And then, with love, he tried to kill his son, to keep him. Such a sad, sad story."

"Yes," Eowyn said. "Yes, it is."

"I saw Lord Denethor when he was a young man," Ioreth said. "He was so handsome and proud. He used to ride a white stallion through the city square. I never thought…" Ioreth did not finish though. She just shook her head.

"We seldom do," Eowyn said. She remembered herself as a child, how she had worshipped Theoden. She thought him the bravest and best of men. Time had lead to disappointment. She learned he was a weak man easily swayed by flattery. The cold years came. Grey days slipped by one after another, all the same, numbing. Hands that reached for her in the dark, and pale lips that smiled at her coming. The thought of Wormtongue left her shuddering.

"Get under the blankets," Ioreth said.

"I'm not cold."

"You're shivering." Ioreth guided the girl down and pulled the blankets on top of her. "Sleep now."

Ioreth blew out the candles and left the room. For a while, Eowyn fought sleep, but finally the nightmares caught hold of her and pulled her in. The pounding of hooves echoed through her. There were screams in the dark and dead faces, belonging to those she loved. Eomer and Aragorn lay beside Theoden and Theodred in dim halls.

Then someone was shaking her. Her eyes flew open. Faramir was bending over her. She would see him by the lantern he had set down on the windowsill. There was urgency in his hands and eyes.

"The city is under siege," Faramir said. His voice was cracked.

Eowyn looked around, but the House was still quiet.

"Why aren't you with your men?" Eowyn asked.

"I will be shortly," Faramir said. "I want you to get out."

"Why?"

"Because you are the last person in this world that I truly care for, and right now, I need something to fight for."

Eowyn shook her head. "I won't go."

"Please," Faramir said. "You've got a broken arm. You can't even hold a sword. You'll be of more use later. The wounded, the sick, and the remaining boys are being brought out of the city to shelter in the hills. I need you to go with them."

"No," Eowyn said. Her grey eyes were resolute. "I will not go."

"But you must." Faramir's hands were trembling. His eyes were wet with unshed tears. He sat down beside her and took her hand.

Eowyn shook her head. "A lord once told me," she said, "that there would be time when none would return and then there would be need for valour without renown. Our last fight would be the unsung defense of our homes. Well, it's come to that, and I won't shy away. I will die by your side, unremembered."

"This isn't your home," Faramir said gently, releasing her hand.

"It is now," she said, lifting her head and looking into his eyes. "You're here. You are the only piece of life I have left. Let me stay with you."

She had not planned the words. They had just burst forth. She had not even thought she cared for Faramir until this moment, but now that she knew she would never see him again, her heart ached. She had become accustomed to seeing his strange, grave face, so like Aragorn's and yet not, pressed against the pillow or gazing tenderly down at her. She had loathed his pity, but now she longed for his love, and it was too late.

"I cannot," Faramir said. "Please, leave with Merry. I have to go." He pressed a kiss to her lips and got up. He had his hand on the hilt of his sword as he walked out the door.

"Come, my lady," Merry said. He was dressed and out of bed. "The healers say we have to go now."

"What use is running away?" Eowyn said. "They'll come after us. They'll find us."

"When we're stronger, my lady," Merry said. "It's not the end yet." But there was no hope in his tired voice.

They walked along in silence. Outside the windows, there was fire in the city. Eowyn thought she saw Orcs rushing by. Inside, the healers were hurrying, talking to each other in quick voices. Some would stay behind to tend the soldiers, if there were survivors. The herb-master would stay because of his skill in herbs. Ioreth would lead the others to the hills and on from there if need be.

Healers were leaving now, men and women alike, to search the streets for broken bodies. Eowyn wanted to go with them, but Faramir was right. She would be useless without her sword arm, and she was no healer.

So, Eowyn followed Ioreth, pleading with fate to let Faramir survive. They were descending, down a staircase to the underground. There were passages under the city, Ioreth was saying, other ways out. They went from tunnel to tunnel, choosing doors in what seemed a haphazard manner, though the route must have been carefully planned. They passed another doorway, into a winding tunnel. There were no torches on the wall here, only the ones in the hands of the healers.

Eowyn wondered if it was evening. It seemed a silly thing to wonder about, the time of day. They were turning to another dark corridor. Then the Orcs were on them. Eowyn heard one of the younger women scream. Eowyn turned and took the torch from her and threw it in the face of the largest Orc. It shrieked and sprang back, clawing its burning face with its hands. Merry threw a stone at another Orc, but the Orcs seemed to have given up fighting. They fled back through the passage they had come from.

"Scouts," Ioreth muttered. "We'll never get out now. The city's completely surrounded."

Eowyn felt nauseous. Her head was wringing, and all she could think about was Helm's Deep, and the long hours of dread she had spend there waiting for the enemy to break in.

"If more come, I'll fight them," a boy said. Eowyn recognized him as Bergil, a young friend of Pippin's, who had come often to visit Merry in the Houses of Healing. The other boys expressed approval.

"Should we go on or back?" asked a middle-aged man, one of the healers.

Ioreth hesitated, her eyes taking in the tunnel before them. She tilted her head, listening.

"On," she said finally. "But this way. And leave your lights."

Those with torches extinguished them, and Ioreth brought her host to one of the side tunnels. It was so narrow they had to squeeze through single file. Eowyn worried. If there were Orcs at the other end, they would be trapped here. They would die in this tunnel, shot down one by one or burnt alive. Merry, who was a step in front of her, reached back and took her hand.

"Take the hand of person behind you," he whispered. "Ioreth doesn't want us getting lost. There are some side passages."

She complied and passed on the order. They walked for a while like this in silence, strung together by their hands. The warmth of fingers gave Eowyn some hope. Others were still living, though there was hardly a sound. No one was breathing loud. The footfalls were soft, except for the occasional stumble.

They switched tunnels after about an hour. The new tunnel was narrow to begin with but grew wider as they went along. It branched out some hours later, and Ioreth led them left. Merry let go of Eowyn's hand. Eowyn let go of the woman behind her without question.

They were approaching the end of the tunnel. So far, there was no sign of Orcs, but that did not mean anything. There could be an ambush waiting for them. Ioreth sent one of the older boys ahead to look. He came back and told them the path was clear. Ioreth moved them on but with caution. She stopped at every sound. It was a halting process, but finally they had made it through. They emerged from the tunnel into a small cave. It looked out over field and sky. The sky was blood red, showing a dawn that would darken to a rusty brown before noon. The fields below where already brown, burnt up by heat that came from no had not died underground. All around her, she could see faint smiles.

"We need to keep moving," Ioreth said. "It's not safe here."

There were a few groans from the tired, but everyone knew not to argue with Ioreth. She led them down the slope of the hill, going from one small grove to another. Eowyn kept looking from side to side, but there were still no signs of Orcs. She felt exhausted, many of them did. Some of the younger boys and older men and women were lagging behind. Ioreth was still going at a sprint, when suddenly she stopped.

"We'll rest here a while," Ioreth pointed to a clump of trees surrounding a small pool of water. "We'll fill up our skins and have something to eat."

They sat or sprawled on the grass and drank water until they had their fill with it. Then they filled all their bottles and had breakfast. Afterwards, they napped.

"Where are we heading?" Eowyn asked Ioreth, when Ioreth woke them some time later.

"Lebennin," Ioreth replied.


End file.
